


Thing That Could Not Be, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Original Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-24
Updated: 2000-11-24
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh falls for someone. . .





	Thing That Could Not Be, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

*******************

Disclaimers are all as usual. 

Archiving is fine by me. 

Feedback muchly appreciated.

 

The Thing That Could Not Be.

  
The thing I should be aware of when leaving the house, is how I always end up  
right in the mess of things. No matter how my day begins or how the previous  
one ends, although my husband says it affects circumstances greatly. It may -  
just not the circumstances under which I end up in the mess of things.  
Today, for example, has begun quite ordinarily. Well, except for one small  
detail… but I should start with an introduction.  
I'm married, naturally. Two wonderful kids, a two-year-old boy and an infant  
girl, born very early in my life as the family policy goes - I'm only 23.  
Living in New York City has been wonderful, even quiet at times, especially  
after Washington DC, where my hubby was a lawyer on the Associate White House  
Counsel and we've not spent a single evening together in the past three years.  
He is somewhat of a workaholic, and the position he assumed as a civil advisor  
of the NYC mayor, is not keeping him up nights. The kids do that well enough.  
Walking up the street in the downtown, I was contemplating every possible way of  
having to present my family with the fresh news: the doctor's appointment  
confirmed I had another baby on the way. Having another child was the last  
thing on my mind these days.  
There was time enough to think this over before anyone would notice anything,  
and, inevitably, it made me wonder what my choices were, now that the  
possibility of having a Republican president hung low above our heads, like a  
sword pointing down. Pro-choicers were heard less and less - not because there  
were any less Democrats in the country or because President Bartlet's 8 years in  
the office weren't the best in this century, but because the current candidates  
were hopelessly inferior to him, both intellectually and in their political  
goals. The elections were near; the first days of November were gloomy and wet.  
Part of the sidewalk ahead was unfit for walking; like other people before me, I  
had to make my way closer to the road, where a large black limousine stood, its  
impenetrable windows closed tightly. The asphalt was damaged so badly that I  
concentrated on finding a spot to step on when…  
…the back door of the limo opened suddenly just as I was walking right by. It's  
violent blow sent me flying to the ground.  
I've never been hit with a huge solid piece of metal before. It REALLY hurts,  
you know. The door smashed into me between shoulder and hip and I scraped my  
hands and hit my head when I fell. For a moment, maybe longer, everything went  
dark. A thought shot through my head - is it possible to miscarry in your third  
month?  
Someone's hands helped me sit up; the man who climbed out of the limo was the  
first one to come to my aid. I could feel his fingers slide over the back of my  
head, searching for injuries; he pulled a handkerchief out of his front pocket  
and laid it gently to my scratched palm.  
"Oh god. I'm more sorry than words can express. You okay?"  
A couple of people stopped, mostly because I was blocking their path.  
"I don't know yet. Is this a thing now - to attack innocent pedestrians with  
car doors?"  
The man uttered a quiet laughing sound, the cause of which I couldn't  
understand. Puzzled by that, I finally managed to look at his face.  
Staring right at me with deeply-rooted concern in large dark eyes, was the  
Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman.  
Not that I would even know who he was - even if your husband is on the White  
House staff payroll, one doesn't generally pay attention to people other than  
the President and his next man. The reason I knew this man was an old copy of  
George magazine with his picture on it, that my silly high school-dwelling  
sister brought to my house, stating I just had to see the photo of the cutest  
guy in all White House.  
Well, I was certainly seeing him now.  
He was in his very early 40s - much too young to occupy a serious position at  
the Hill for the past 8 years, but then the Bartlet Administration encouraged  
brains, not age, which, even in my opinion, never defined experience. He was  
wearing a dark suit and an old watch that looked like it held little value other  
than being a present from someone close. His shoes could provide my reflection  
with almost impeccable clarity. He seemed younger than he was supposed to,  
maybe because of the boyish unruly hair.  
"Can you get up?" he asked, as I kept looking at him with my mouth open.  
Now that I think about it, I must have looked pretty stupid. Then, I was just  
plain angry and hurt and too star-struck to voice my irritation into coherent  
sentences. I mumbled something and he helped me stand up. People were able to  
walk past me and the Wall Street suit crowd, too busy for remorse or curiosity,  
was gone.  
"Evidently, you can," he said, smiling.  
I surveyed my coat, covered in mud, and the blood, seeping from my palms.  
"Aren't you entitled to someone who opens the door for you?" I said rather  
rudely.  
He was still grinning. Picking my handbag from the ground, he said:  
"I'm saving the taxpayers money on that one."  
"Well I bet you thought you were doing everyone a favor. Please, let go of my  
hand. I'd like to move on with this disaster of a day."  
"Has it been that bad?"  
"Decidedly. But now it's gotten unimaginably worse."  
He looked me over.  
"No serious injuries, no broken bones. Granted, you'll have some bruises and  
scratches for a few days and I'm as sorry as I can be about that. Really, it  
isn't that bad."  
A sharp pain in my stomach blocked out his words. I crouched back to the  
ground, gritting my teeth and trying hard not to scream. The Deputy Chief of  
Staff dropped down on his knees after me.  
"What's wrong? What is it? Talk to me, lady!" as I gasped for breath, he  
pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, then hurled it into  
the limo's open door and cursed.  
"There's a hospital down the street. Please…" was all I could manage besides  
pointing my finger in the direction I came from.  
"Coop! There's a hospital down this street. Help me!" the driver was already  
out of the limo. Together, they put me into the back of the car and, before I  
knew it, we were heading towards the hospital.  
"You'll be okay. They'll take care of you in the hospital. Believe me, I know  
about hospitals. I'll stay with you until you're better," said Joshua Lyman.  
The driver handed him a ringing car phone. "Yeah! Sam - a bit busy right now.  
No, I'm not devising a secret plan to fight inflation. I hit this girl with my  
car door. No, I don't care to explain how it happened! We're on our way to the  
hospital; she looks like she's in a lot of pain. Later."  
He punched another number into the phone.  
"Donna?" he yelled. "Cancel this thing I was going to. Oh, and let's do the  
Budget later, ok? I'll be back in a couple of hours. No, you don't need to  
know where I am. If Leo asks, just wing it. Bye." He threw the phone back at  
the driver as the limo stopped in front of the hospital.  
"I don't want you to cancel any meetings. You don't have to stay with me.  
There'll be a scene - you're famous, you know," I whispered as he rolled out of  
the car and screamed for a gurney.  
"Maybe I'll be able to cut in line for you," he said, as if we were going to a  
grocery store.  
"No, I don't want you to stay. Thanks for the ride. Go to your meeting."  
Two nurses rolled out a gurney and helped me onto it. As I was being taken  
away, I could still hear him talking to someone:  
"My name is Joshua Lyman, I work for the President of the United States. An  
unfortunate accident has just happened to this young lady. Please see that she  
is taken care of, I'll be checking up on her later."  
I looked for my purse - it wasn't on me. I left it in the car. My wallet, my  
credit cards, even my house keys were in it. Suddenly the pain was too much to  
bear, and everything went dark again.

  
***

  
By the end of the day, Josh Lyman was about to pummel everyone in his path with  
a cricket bat, inspired by the example Lionel Tribbey set one day, when he came  
to a conclusion that the Rockland memo wasn't making his vacation happen. Not  
too many things were going his way.  
When he finally made it back to the White House - the chopper ride seemed so  
much shakier than usual - it turned out the Budget people didn't wait for him.  
Donna made a few phone calls to get them back, but neither of the four people he  
was to meet with showed up.  
"You doing okay?"  
Sam Seaborn, his colleague and best friend, popped his head into the barely open  
door of his office.  
"Enter. Sit. Talk to me. What'd they say?"  
"Who? Mine or yours?"  
"Yours. Then mine."  
"Mine couldn't be happier. I spent four hours on the Hill today, trying to save  
the planet. I figured I'd start small, you know, move the cactus away from the  
computer screen. But by the end of the last meeting, the Department of  
Transportation was willing to give the GDC another three percent on the fuel  
reduction. We can only hope those three percent will be fruitful and multiply  
once the new president assumes the office."  
"Good job."  
"Yours, however, kept talking about taking responsibility and escapism… was that  
about you? They left before Donna could get the other secretaries to help her  
barricade the doors. What kept you so long?"  
Josh raised his head to look straight into Sam's eyes. Sam was staring  
attentively. Yeah, he could tell him.  
Just as he was about to, Donna walked in.  
"Anything you guys need?"  
"No, thanks, we're fine." Josh shook his head.  
"'Cause, right about now, I'd be willing to go buy you dinner, Josh. Soup to  
nuts. I'm so sorry I got you into trouble today."  
"The Budget people left, there was nothing you could have done to make them wait  
for me. Don't worry about it."  
Donna looked worried about it.  
"Okay," she said and walked outside.  
Sam watched her close the door as neatly and quietly as possible.  
"She's way too good for you," he said. "I'll bet she never eats your food,  
either. What were you going to tell me?"  
"Nothing. Uh, nothing. It wasn't a big deal."  
"You said you hit a girl with your car, Josh. Did anyone see you do that?"  
"It was in downtown Manhattan, Sam. People do tend to populate that area."  
"Yes."  
"No. No one saw me. And I hit her with the door of my car. There's a  
difference."  
"She still had to be taken to the hospital, right?"  
"Yeah. That was the strange part. She didn't seem hurt at first. It looked  
like there was something else that made her hurt."  
"I'm sure there was, Josh. Don't beat yourself up about it. Accidents happen."  
"Yeah. Thanks, man. Good night."  
"You coming?"  
"No, I'll stay awhile. I have to redo the memos for yet another meeting  
tomorrow I might not make."  
"Nice attitude. Take it easy."  
Sam walked out, never looking at the comfortably positioned on the desk before  
him blue folder that said "Budget memos" on it.  
It was now after 7. It was after 7 to the point where it was a quarter to 9.  
Donna has gone home, frustrated at being unable to drag out of him what was  
wrong. The custodian was sweeping outside the bullpen; he could hear the old  
man cough from time to time.  
A purse lay on his desk. Ever since he got out of the limo, he's been putting  
off opening it. The young lady he left in the New York hospital, who was in so  
much pain when he took off, forgot it in the back seat. He found it when they  
arrived to the chopper parked on 164th Street.  
Josh raised his feet onto the desk and began thinking. As he flung the limo door  
open, he could feel the force of the impact when it slammed flat into the girl's  
stomach. He saw her hit her head as she fell, but there was no visible damage.  
She was already standing, what could have caused her to relapse into so much  
pain?  
He remembered his own hurt - being shot in the stomach, and how the pain didn't  
come until much later. He recalled wandering the steps and looking for a quiet  
place to sit down and hope the shooting was nothing but a dream and he was about  
to wake up. Then he saw Toby, and Toby saw him. And, looking into his eyes as  
the pain began to take over, he knew it all was real.  
Finally, he reached for the purse and opened it. Her wallet dutifully contained  
a "when lost" card. He requested an outside line and punched in the number.  
"Can I speak to Elizabeth?" he said when a female voice answered the phone.  
After a long pause, a familiar voice replied quietly.  
"Elizabeth? This is Joshua Lyman. I, uh, wanted to see how you were doing.  
I'm glad you're home from the hospital. Nothing serious?"  
The pause was even longer.  
"It's very kind of you to call. I'm fine."  
"Fine? I hardly believe that, after all I've seen. You've got to tell me how  
you're feeling. It's a good thing I found your number. I was gonna be worried  
all night…"  
"Ya, well, I was gonna be pregnant for a lot longer than I was," suddenly  
snapped the girl on the other side.  
Josh felt the phone handset slipping out of his fingers.  
"Oh god," he uttered. "That was it, wasn't it? Is that… what a miscarriage  
feels like? And I did that?"  
"Yes. How does it go over with you - killing a child before fathering one?"  
It was all he could do to just sit there, suddenly feeling emptier than ever.  
It was pretty much the way it felt when his father died, except he hasn't just  
won an election and the thought sunk in faster.  
He heard the girl catch her breath.  
"Forgive me. I shouldn't have said that, it was cruel. I was just hurting so  
much… I wasn't going to keep this baby, anyway."  
"Yes, well, this country is all about choices," he mumbled.  
"And I choose to hope you forget what I just said to you, Mr. Lyman."  
"Please, call me Josh. We're pretty closely tied together right now. Is there  
anything I can do for you?"  
"I'd like to get my handbag back, if it isn't too much trouble."  
"Yeah. I can drop it off tomorrow. Turns out this thing I was going to got  
postponed."  
"Because you didn't show up?"  
"No, they were out of fried chicken."  
She laughed quietly. He let a sigh of relief escape his lips.  
"It's my own fault, really," she conveyed. "I shouldn't have even left the  
house today. I'm the biggest klutz in the world."  
"Now, I'll fight you for that title. Listen… I'm sure I can't imagine how you  
must be feeling right now, but I can come pretty close. I'd like to visit you  
tomorrow, if that's all right."  
Josh waited a while before he heard an answer.  
"You can come by to drop off the purse in the afternoon. I'll be home."  
He hung up the phone, turned off the little table lamp and sat in the dark,  
peering into nothingness. This would take more thought. Precautions had to be  
made. He would talk to Sam and Toby tomorrow, make sure this whole incident  
never reaches the press. Again, his schedule would have to be played with and  
he'll never hear the end of it from Donna, who'll spend half the day persuading  
angry politicians to give him some personal time.  
He tried to fill his head with the details of averting the media's attention and  
not think of himself as a murderer. That wasn't working.  
Josh heard someone walk into the bullpen, then knock on his door.  
"Josh? You there?" Leo's voice said.  
Leo McGarry never came to his office.  
"Yeah." Josh turned the lamp back on. Leo walked in and leaned on the door. He  
had his coat and briefcase in his hand.  
"Things could be better, eh?" Leo asked.  
"They can and they have. You about to go home?"  
"Not before you tell me what's wrong. Margaret said Cathy told her Donna thinks  
you've got issues."  
"Well if she didn't think that before today I'd gotten better at keeping my  
poker face on."  
"Josh."  
"Yeah."  
"Just talk, will you? I gotta be here real early tomorrow."  
"It's nothing, Leo. I missed the Budget today. They've rescheduled for  
tomorrow, after I'm back from New York. I'll have Shane and Bleck eating out of  
my hand."  
"I know. What's that other thing I hear?"  
Josh stood up.  
"Who told you about the other thing?"  
"You're going to tell me right now."  
"Wow. I like your bluff."  
"Thank you," Leo said modestly.  
"While being late for a meeting with the Standard and Poors' people today, I  
accidentally hit a girl with my car door. She had to be taken to the hospital.  
Turns out she was pregnant and I caused her to miscarry. I, uh… I'm gonna try  
and see her tomorrow, to talk about, you know, the coverage."  
Leo sighed.  
"This should not be a story, Josh. I'm sorry it happened but it's our last few  
months in the White House…"  
"I know. It won't be."  
"Okay. Want me to come with you?"  
"Oh, I don't think so. You aren't allowed to go where I'm going right now."  
"Yeah, where's that?"  
"Somewhere where there's a two-for-one Jack Daniels sale."  
"Anything I can do to make you exchange that for a cup of coffee?"  
"Not a damn thing, Leo. Good night."  
"Night, kid. Keep it together for me, all right?"  
Leo's steps silenced in the distance as Josh picked up his coat and locked the  
office door.

  
***

  
"Eight years. I've practically lived in the White House for eight years.  
There's been some pretty crazy stuff going on, the President was shot, and so  
was I. Iraq and Pakistan, Korea and India, then some of our own people drove us  
insane. But I've never felt this bad."  
Josh swallowed another shot of whiskey. The bartender didn't even pretend to  
care.  
"Are you sure you're supposed to be telling me all this?"  
"No. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'll get fired for it tomorrow." Josh got up  
with difficulty as the bar swung from side to side, and half-felt his way out.  
By the time the wind cleared his head and he reached home, it was almost time to  
go back to work. He sat on the steps and closed his eyes. This was going to be  
an unbearable day.  
***  
Overall, it turned out okay. John was really late from work last night and my  
sister Sheila and I, after long hours of painful discussion, decided to keep the  
entire thing our secret. He would never have to know.  
This morning, Sheila took the kids to mom's so I could have some rest. John was  
ready to stay home from work but I managed to persuade him I'd be just fine.  
I've never really been 'suddenly sick' before, and it took a little while before  
he was out the door, after which I could barely make it to the living-room  
couch. Everything hurt. Perhaps I should have stayed at the hospital like  
they've offered.  
Just as I began feeling easier, the doorbell rang. Standing at my threshold was  
the Deputy Chief of Staff with a goofy smile on his face and my purse in his  
hands. The other hand held roses.  
Many, many red roses.  
"You should really be in bed, resting," he said.  
"Thank you for bringing the purse. Come in. I'll put these into some water.  
They're lovely. Would you like some coffee or something to eat?"  
"Actually, that would be great. I've been doing a lot of drinking lately, but  
no eating. Wait a minute!" he said suddenly, taking the coat off and sitting in  
the armchair. "You shouldn't be cooking. I'll pick something up on the way to  
my meeting."  
"If you're sure."  
"Yeah. Nice place you've got here. Pretty empty, too."  
"My family is giving me some time to rest."  
I put the vase on the table by the window and sat down across from him.  
"Okay, uh… I don't really know how to begin saying this," Mr. Lyman said. "I  
feel I should apologize to you every day for the rest of my life for what I've  
done, and that won't be enough."  
"That's a bit on the extreme side, really. I feel better, and, like I said, I  
was never intending to keep this baby."  
"Still. I won't bore you with details, but I know what it's like to lose  
someone you love. Not that the baby actually existed for you to love it, but  
I'm sure you already had a preconceived notion of how your life would change  
because of it and, as all mothers do, you certainly did love it…"  
He looked lost and searched my eyes for help.  
"Bore me with details," I said.  
And, without a pause, he told me his story.  
This was a rich, fulfilling life, full of happiness, and pride, and glorious  
victories, but also deeply touched with sorrow and pain. Everything from his  
sister's death to his father's demise and the assassination attempt, which had  
nearly cost him his life, brought tears to his eyes as he spoke. It seemed he  
needed this conversation much more than I did, and all I could do was listen.  
I was more than touched. I wanted to reach out and smooth that wild hair, like  
I'd do with my little son, and tell him that it's all right and everything will  
be just fine. There, there, dear. I'm here, you needn't be afraid of anything.  
I'm right here.  
And then I knew I no longer saw him as a stranger who'd harmed me in the worst  
way possible. I did not hate him, I did not wish yesterday had never happened;  
I was thankful - to have, in my ordinary uninteresting life, a bright sparkle in  
the presence of this extraordinarily powerful and vulnerable man.  
"I'm going to call you again," he said as he was on his way out. "Feel better  
soon and I apologize…"  
"Please don't. I mean, don't apologize. And you don't have to call me either.  
I'm sure you've got more important things to do."  
He smiled.  
"Not right now."

  
***  


"Josh, what are you doing?"  
"What's it look like I'm doing?"  
Donna measured him with THE look.  
"It looks to me like you're on the phone when you should be at the briefing.  
For which you are late already, and certain people of various importance, like,  
say, the President, are waiting for you."  
"Yeah. I'm on my way."  
Josh hung up the phone after listening to seventeen rings. As he pondered why  
an answering machine would not pick up after seventeen rings, the briefing was  
over.  
"Get any of that written down?" Sam asked as they were walking out of the Oval  
Office. "My pen ran out of ink and I thought if I interrupted one more time I'd  
lose my job."  
"No. I'm sure I have some ideas on the subject and I'll relate them to you as  
soon as you tell me what the subject was."  
Sam leaned against the wall.  
"What is wrong with you?"  
"I don't know, Sam. I'm over forty, I have a goal in life, I'm successful and  
well-paid; and here I am, wondering why a girl I have no business of getting  
involved with won't return my phone calls."  
"Do you know anything about her?"  
"She's not a call girl, Sam. Sorry, man, that was unfair. In fact, I don't.  
How can I if she won't talk to me?"  
"I'm sure she's got her reasons not to talk to you." CJ put her hand on his  
shoulder, and Josh turned to her, startled. "Yes, everyone knows. All I'm  
saying is - find out who she is before you jump to conclusions."  
"As I have a tendency to do."  
"I didn't say that."  
"You were going to say that."  
"Well, at least now you're back to your old self, so thank me and move on." She  
was gone before he could add anything else.  
"I didn't tell her," Sam was about to duck for cover.  
"It's all right. My personal life is here for everyone to toy with."  
***  
"Elizabeth? This is Joshua Lyman. I'm just calling to find out how you're  
doing."  
"Honey, who is it?"  
Not now, John.  
"It's for me. Thank you for calling, this is extremely kind of you. I'm very  
well."  
"I'm glad. I've tried calling you so many times and never once could leave a  
message."  
"Mr. Lyman, we spoke six times in the past week."  
"We did? Anyway, I was just wondering if you were free to, say, have dinner  
with me the next time I'm in your fair city. Which would be anytime you'd want  
to…"  
"Mommy!"  
Oh, dear god. What am I doing? This should end quickly, while I can help it.  
"Yes, Francis, my love, there is not a chance in the world mommy could have a  
private phone conversation, is there? I'm sorry, Mr. Lyman. I'm going to have  
to let you go."  
For a while, he was really quiet.  
"I'm sorry. I just heard you refer to yourself as 'mommy.' You have children?"  
"And a wonderful husband. I hope you see why I will not be able to meet with  
you. No matter how flattered I am by your…"  
"You never told me you were married."  
"Mr. Lyman, you never asked."  
Silence. Why is this happening to me?  
"No, I suppose I never did. How… selfish of me. Please forgive my intrusion in  
your life. That is, if you manage to forgive everything else I've done to you."  
"I've forgiven you the moment you set foot through my door. I hope now you can  
forgive me."  
And I hope I can forgive myself. For never telling him that, had he stayed on  
the phone a moment longer, I would have said I'd begun falling in love with him.  
It's better to have these things nipped in the bud. And I've always been bad  
with endings.  
He hung up the phone after saying goodbye. I helped my son find a crayon of the  
exact color he was looking for.  
This thing, the thing that could not be, was over.

  

  

  


End file.
